Saturday.
Rang her instead of typing. Ten past nine, tea going cold, the house quiet because my daughter was still asleep with Economics notes fanned across her bed.
Ninuo picked up on the second ring. Wind in the background, a car door, her usual bright Wei?
We did the warm-up first. Her trip, my shop, the weather. Exam week, and how the toast was holding up. She laughed in the right places. She always does.
Then I said it. That TRMe kit. The thirty-day one. Does it actually work?
A pause. Not a long one, but I noticed it.
Honestly? I'm only just starting too, she said. So I can't give you a big speech.
Funny. I'd braced for a speech.
What she had instead was a friend. Someone from her circle, a woman about our age, who'd done one full set and told her she'd lost four kilos. Ninuo said it twice, as if she wanted me to hear that it was one person's story and not a promise. Eating properly the whole month, she said. Walking every morning. The kit was just the frame around it.
Didn't argue. Didn't believe or disbelieve. Just held the phone and listened to the wind.
Then she said, a little shyly: Actually, I've been wanting to lose a bit myself. Before summer.
And out it came. Mine too. The linen trousers still in my hands on Wednesday. The jacarandas on Epping Road. A vague, unspoken plan to get back into the water at Coogee or Bronte before the crowds arrive, without having to think about it too hard.
So let's do one together, said Ninuo. One set each. Thirty days. We'll see who does better.
A competition. I laughed out loud, alone in the kitchen.
Loser buys the first coffee after a swim, she added.
Loser buys the first coffee at Bronte, I agreed. With a view.
Then the practical part. She'd order both sets herself — her price, she said, the one she gets as part of what she does. I told her I'd transfer the money the moment she gave me the figure. She said no rush, and then, I'll send you the details tonight.
Said yes. Easy as that. Hung up and sat looking at the phone like it had told me a joke.
Funny what I'd been hoping for. All week, a part of me wanted Ninuo to say wait. Or don't bother. Some reason to close the tab for good.
What she gave me was neither. Just a hand held out, and a bet. Thirty days stopped looking like a project and started to look like a game with a friend.
I still don't know about the nine capsules. The meals, the little white dish. Who eats lunch standing up at ten past three and thinks of that as a plan.
But a cup of coffee at Bronte, with a view. That I could picture.
Down the hall, a door opened. Slippers on the floor.
Haven't told my daughter yet. Not sure how to begin.
And — I realised, rinsing the cup — not yet sure who goes first on the scales.